The first love put away from memory.
The town where I was wild left behind.
People From The Past left in the forest
As I camp by the river, mocking Charon.
The stars so madly bright, hostile to dreams.
The moon came down for kisses and wine.
Sleep is the perfume of moist, misty soil.
Dew and fog the unsheathed breath passing.
And the moon, a fickle mistress, back to Skye.
No more than this, a drug of butterfly landing.
The stars are, of course, a silent pimp of touch.
I stay, make clay people to kill; my children.